


human error

by edosian



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Child Abuse, Genetic Engineering, Genetically Engineered Beings, Non-Explicit Sex, Starfleet Academy, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24098392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edosian/pseuds/edosian
Summary: A reflection on genetic engineering, deliberate failure, and home.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 76





	human error

**Author's Note:**

> hi, please enjoy this mess! comments are always appreciated! :-)

Jules Bashir finds out who he is— _what_ he is—one unusually sunny June day. The school year has just ended, and he’s frantically searching for his cleats. The twins just around the corner have begged him to join their football game, and of course he said yes; he’s quick, and winning comes naturally to him, just like nearly everything else.

He can’t find his cleats—keeping track of his things does _not_ come naturally to him—and finds himself in the attic picking through last summer’s clothes. The sun filters through the windows in hazy yellow rays, falling across long-forgotten cardboard boxes. He shuffles through a dusty box of his father’s old tennis rackets—no luck. “Mum, have you seen my—”

He pauses when he comes across a manilla folder of papers. This _is_ unusual—his parents prefer everything to be computerized; the only paper in his home is on his bookshelf of childhood favorites, passed down through his family for generations. Curious, and lacking in self-control, he thumbs through the papers. His name jumps out to him: _Jules Subatoi Bashir, aged seven years old, Adigeon Prime…_

Jules frowns. He only vaguely remembers his time on Adigeon Prime; his parents tell him that he was suffering from an illness that Starfleet doctors hadn’t yet cured, and that there were experimental procedures occurring on Adigeon Prime. He vaguely remembers feathered doctors who gave him lollipops, five-headed aliens in the waiting rooms, how he read _Alice in Wonderland_ for the first time. His parents dislike talking about the procedures, but Jules presumes he must have been suffering from a concussion; his memories become clearer, nearly eidetic, after he returns home.

Jules is a fast reader—he knows this; every teacher always writes it on his quarterly reports—and it doesn’t take long to skim through the pages of documents.  An odd lump rises in his throat. He blinks hard, trying to understand. Because these documents are saying strange things that can’t possibly be true. Genetic enhancement is illegal in the Federation, and has been for centuries; it’s been left in the past with the likes of Khan Noonien Singh. No, Jules Bashir, just barely fifteen years old, brilliant and popular and loved by his parents, can’t be genetically engineered, because it doesn’t make any sense.

Except the documents are telling him that it _does_ make sense.

His heartbeat stutters in his throat, but he can’t stop reading. _Mental enhancements (verbal processing, language comprehension). Improvement in fine motor skills._

He hears footsteps approaching, but he can’t stop reading. _Newfound alertness. 2.4-second improvement in response times re: red light test._ The real world seems very far away right now. He’s not sure if he wants to return.

“Jules, what are you—”

Jules watches absently as his mother’s face goes pale. She swallows, places a hand to her chest. He watches, feeling as though perhaps he’s seeing her for the first time.

There are tears to come, and long explanations, and _you can never tell anyone,_ and _it was for your own good,_ but for now, Jules drifts comfortably out of his body, waiting for the world to swallow him whole. So this is what it feels like to not belong to yourself. It’s not all that bad.

After that endless night, he decides he doesn’t care for his own name anymore. Julian sounds better, tripping off his tongue more easily. Julian is his own person, not a mail-ordered child.

He never does play football that day. In fact, games in general start to hold a lot less appeal, once you know that there’s a _reason_ you always win.

* * *

Julian Bashir is seventeen years old and loves tennis more than anything else in the world. His coach—who does not know the Secret; nobody knows, nobody _can_ know—deems him remarkable, special, a genius, and Julian feels himself overflow with the relief of validation.

The game, of course, becomes more complex when one must constantly conceal one’s true identity. While Julian typically finds the constant lies to be exhausting, he doesn’t mind it so terribly when it comes to tennis. It becomes a new part of the game, finding the precise moment to fumble with his racket or trip over his own feet.

There’s an athletics program on Mars, he learns. Perhaps, surrounded Vulcans and Klingons and every other being in the galaxy, his own eccentricities would be less obvious. He presents the application to his father one evening, which—somehow—goes more poorly than he had expected.

“There will be _testing,_ Jules,” snaps Richard. “Extensive testing. Is it worth it, Jules? You want to incriminate yourself _and_ your parents just so you can swing some racket around for a few years? How selfish can you get?”

Julian clenches his jaw so tightly that his head aches. “I don’t care. I’ll find a way.”

Richard snorts in disbelief. “He’ll find a way. He’s smart enough.” He shoots Julian a look of pure contempt. “So smart, and you still don’t understand how the world works.”

Julian can’t do this. He storms upstairs, where he can scream into a pillow to his heart’s content. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

His father is right, of course; he’ll be found out, and his bright future will go right down the drain. If only his genes weren’t twisted and tangled by some unknown hand, if only he didn’t always have to dance around the truth, if only he was _normal—_

He misses the application deadline. When his coach pulls a few hundred strings to extend the deadline, he misses that, too. When his coach drops him from the league, apologetically explaining that there’s no sense in keeping him if he isn’t going to try, Julian barely flinches.

It’s easy. It’s easy.

* * *

As he nears the end of his high school education, his parents begin subtly dropping hints about medical school. When he doesn’t respond to the hints, they grow more outright, until one day, his father blurts out: “You _are_ applying to Starfleet Academy, aren’t you?”

On another day, Julian might fight back, but challenging his parents grows less and less appealing by the day. It’s no longer a challenge—it merely feels like a waste of time. So Julian simply says yes, of course he is, and his father beams.

It’s not that Julian _doesn’t_ want to be a doctor. He’s brought it up to his parents for years, in fact. He’s been fascinated by the medical field ever since he was a child; although he still fears doctors, he can’t help but be fascinated by the power of a medical professional. They wield so much power, and yet they use it to _save_ people. Or at least they should.

Julian wants to heal people. His father, he fears, is more concerned with fixing them.

But he applies nonetheless. He takes the required testing, submits all the essays, hands over all the necessary documents (appropriately doctored, of course). And he gets in. Of course he does. After all, the enhancements would be for nothing if he wouldn’t achieve precisely what his parents wanted.

His parents are elated when he gets the news. For the following weeks, they can’t keep their hands off of him, as though he is some holy artifact. He’ll be sitting on his bed reading the latest scientific journal when his father will ruffle his hair, or his mother will grab his hands and stare at him as though he’s the universe’s most perfect gift.

And he feels it; he feels _loved,_ and despite himself, it feels good. To feel love is to feel _useful,_ to feel as though his presence is a gift. He was not good enough, once upon a time, and this is his second chance, the chance to become _something._

_Remarkable,_ his mother calls him. _Astonishing. Talented. Gifted._

It’s the _gifted_ that concerns him, because it’s the truth; that’s just what it is: a gift. There is nothing inherently special about him.

He remembers a past, or a version of it, where he was so catastrophically stupid, so incredibly disappointing that his parents simply _needed_ a new child. So if he is _gifted,_ he is only that—not remarkable or astonishing or special in any way. Nothing more than a stupid little kid who got lucky.

At the Academy, of course, he can be just a little more than _gifted._ He remembers the Borg attacks, of course, only a few years ago, but more than the attack itself, he remembers the heroes who came down from the sky in deep blue uniforms and healed the world. He watches the news from the Bajoran front with wide eyes, always hoping to catch a Federation citizen in that remarkable uniform, here to deliver rations or replicators or medical aid and, of course, save the day.

He counts down the days until school is over, until he leaves home, until he gets to wear that cadet uniform. Privately, he begins referring to himself as Doctor Bashir, somebody beyond the genetic code switches that a few scientists planned.

* * *

Julian Bashir learns two important things in his first year at Starfleet Academy. The first is that lying is quite simple. The second is that he is very good at kissing.

Romance had never held much of an appeal to Julian in his teen years. There always seemed to be better things to do, and besides, he never thought that anyone would ever be particularly attracted to him.

His first week at the academy, he shares a long, drunken kiss with an Orion boy who tells him he has the hands of a doctor. When Julian can’t breathe, the boy giggles and whispers “You’re cute” into his left ear and kisses him again.

That night, dizzy with synthehol, he has a realization: he may have found a new skill.

It’s not that he’s especially good at making friends, or especially skilled at social interaction in general. He always rambles too long, or clings too closely, or does one of a million things that seem to irritate the people around him. Relationships, however, are different; they're quick, fluttery, surprisingly simple. He smiles dazzlingly, asks about their interests, humbly boasts about his accomplishments. He kisses them until they’re both dizzy and he keeps his bedroom clean and welcoming and he goes cold whenever they start to ask questions.

It’s in the afterglow that Julian discovers his true talent for lying.

They always start to ask questions, tangled in his bedsheets, and he learns to smooth over the reality, half-answer full questions, mix lies with half-truths. _Where did he grow up?_ England, never any more specific than that. _What do his parents do?_ They’re doctors, too. _What’s his family like?_ Boring, really. Pretty typical. _Has he always wanted to be a doctor?_ Since the day he was born.

When things get too close, too comfortable, he feigns panic: he has a test tomorrow that he’s got to study for, or an eight AM class, or a residence advisor doing room inspections. When his partner slips out in the middle of the night, promising to stay in contact, he curls up into a ball and tries to let the warmth in his stomach overtake the cold.

He’s good at this. It’s easy. People like him. He’s normal. _Better_ than normal.

He doesn’t think about settling down, not really. Sometimes, in his dreams, he sees an older man he vaguely recognizes as himself, with a faceless partner. He knows they love each other, but the fantasy never goes any farther. If anyone knew the truth—well, who would desire an augment?

The quick relationships are much easier. He indulges the desire that prickles at his skin constantly, plays dumb, flirts too much. More than anything else, he’s pleased to be good at something on his own, without the aid of his enhancements.

* * *

The computerized human body in front of Julian reminds him of his childhood drawings. Nerves tangle through the transparent flesh, splintering and splitting off, too numerous to count. Blood pulses past the muscles, brighter than any crayon scribbles.

The panel of examiners sits in front of him—a human, a Bolian, and a Vulcan. The Bolian taps his pen to his PADD, watching Julian closely. “Identify the illuminated area, please, Mr. Bashir.”

He calculated his grade point average ahead of time, and knows that if he wishes to achieve valedictorian, he can get no more than two answers incorrect. He botched the earlier question about lung capacity on purpose. Simple human error; nobody’s expected to get a perfect score on their final Starfleet exam. Human error. He almost laughs to himself—he has to manufacture even that.

There’s a cold sweat breaking out across the back of Julian’s neck, trickling down his spine, filling him with a sickly sense of dread. In an instant, the reality of it all flashes before him. If he becomes valedictorian, he will have to speak at graduation. He will make a speech laced with lies. He will have the option of any posting he wishes. He will receive congratulations from his peers, his professors, his parents. He will _win—_ but it won’t be a fair match. It was never a fair match.

“It’s a preganglionic fiber,” he blurts out, generating a raised eyebrow from the Vulcan. His queasiness evaporates, replaced with a stuttering heartbeat. So he won’t get a perfect score. So he’s done the right thing.

Knowing this doesn’t make any of it easier. 

* * *

His parents take the news of his underperformance well.

“Unbelievable.” His father paces across his living room, bobbing and weaving in and out of the viewscreen. “How did this happen?”

Julian feels oddly numb. Fighting with his parents doesn’t have the same sting when they’re hundreds of miles away. “I told you, I made a stupid mistake.”

Amsha sits perfectly still on the couch. She gives him a pained, thin smile, as though she doesn’t quite believe him. “You were nervous, Jules. It happens.”

Richard snorts derisively, continuing his agitated pacing. “Not in the middle of your final exam, it shouldn’t.” 

Julian takes a deep breath until his lungs burst with air, then lets it out in a whoosh. “It’s not like I failed. I—I’m still salutatorian.”

His response is a look of disappointment from Amsha, a look of scorn from Richard. “I’ve had about enough of your excuses. ‘A stupid mistake.’ You don’t make mistakes, Jules.”

“My name is _Julian._ ”

The volume of his own voice startles Julian. He clamps his mouth shut, ears ringing with the sudden rush of blood to his head. He will not cry. He will not react.

Richard stills at the sound of his son’s voice, his face twisted in an ugly glare. “You were outperformed,” he says, “by someone without your gifts.” His voice is level. "Entirely unacceptable."

As his father stares down the barrel of the screen, a wave of shock ripples through Julian. He realizes, now, what has been right there all long: _He hates you._

Richard’s voice is uncharacteristically measured. “These gifts were wasted on you.” Richard’s jaw twitches. “I don’t know what to say, Jules.”

Loathing seeps through Julian’s body. He can’t stand them. He can’t even stand himself.

“Don’t come to my graduation,” snaps Julian before he can stop himself. He ends the call without another word.

* * *

They sit in the front row. His mother beams at him, argument conveniently forgotten. His father checks his watch and hides a yawn behind his program.

Julian’s ears ring with such ferocity that he doesn’t hear a word of Elizabeth Lense’s valedictorian speech. He accepts his diploma with a grateful mumble and a clammy handshake. When the Federation anthem swells, signaling the end, he bolts out of the auditorium, out of the Academy, running until his lungs burst. If anyone sees him, if anyone touches him, he will explode.

Post-graduation, Julian gets drunk on real whiskey, not synthehol, the sort of throat-burning booze that practically splits his head open the next morning. He stumbles from afterparty to afterparty, kissing faceless strangers until the bitterness leaves his throat and he can almost breathe again.

Two weeks later, he boards the shuttle to Deep Space Nine—which is about as far as he can get from Earth without traveling to the Delta quadrant.

* * *

There is a way to heal. It is slow, so slow that Julian doesn’t notice. It’s there when It’s there when, even thrust two centuries into the past, Sisko waits hours in line to find them both breakfast. It’s there when Miles gamely plays the villain in each and every holosuite program with only mild grumbling. It’s there when Jadzia lifts him off the ground in a bone-crushing hug. When Odo borrows a romance novel. When Quark charges him full price for a drink, rather than the usual 15% upcharge. When Julian can allow himself to think: _So this is home. So these are my people. So perhaps there is something to love about me._

* * *

His parents arrive without warning. The truth unravels in a slow, sticky spiral.

Julian Bashir locks himself in his quarters.

He can’t do this. He can’t _be_ anymore. He cant be the station’s own personal freakshow, the doctor whose mere existence is illegal, the little boy who was so disappointing he had to be fixed.

Julian wants to cry, to vomit, to scream, but his body won’t let him. Instead, he sits frozen on the floor and hates himself. He hates the Jules of years ago, who looks in places he shouldn’t and found out a truth that never belonged to him. He hates the earlier Jules, who couldn’t tell a dog from a cat, who couldn’t have stopped his parents even if he knew what was going on. He tries, grimly, to hate his parents, but he can’t. He never could.

There is a small black hole inside of him, and he crawls through it.


End file.
